


superego and id

by wafflepancake



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Fist Fights, Gen, Relationship Study, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26196472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wafflepancake/pseuds/wafflepancake
Summary: Osamu considers Atsumu's presence in his life. Second year, pre-Spring High, pre-pre-conscious uncoupling.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Miya Osamu
Comments: 9
Kudos: 80





	superego and id

Osamu sometimes wonders what it’d be like if he’d never separated from Atsumu in the womb. The thought crosses his mind mostly when Atsumu gets on his nerves, prompting him to ponder the pros and cons of a singular existence. Obviously that person would just be someone who looked like them, but what would he really be like? He’d still be playing volleyball, maybe. Or he’d play another sport. What’s unquestionable is that he’d be good at athletics, for sure. And he’d still love eating. Their parents would have probably named him something else. Apparently, they’d only thought of the twins’ names after it was discovered that they would be having twins; they’ve never mentioned it, but any parent would have already had a name in mind at the time of conception.

In addition to the above, Osamu likes to think that this hypothetical ur-twin lives a perfectly balanced life. He’s well-loved by his parents; a little spoiled, just like Atsumu and himself both are, but his madcap impulsivity and curiosity for the world around him are tempered by a realisation that he needs to exist harmoniously with his surroundings, even if he’s naturally inclined to be different. He still does whatever he wants as far as he can, of course, within reason. He might be moderately popular with his classmates. Acceptable grades, nothing stellar. Likes shopping for the latest Asics sneakers, goes to the arcade with his friends in his spare time. He’s a normal person, Osamu supposes, with idiosyncrasies that present themselves in any number of other people. And he’s perfectly happy.

*

In early September, Osamu gets benched for a number of games, even for practice matches, and is relegated to intra-team drills. He hadn’t been playing well since the latter half of the summer Interhigh, and his gradual return to form towards the finals could not help Inarizaki clinch first place in the tournament, though that wasn’t entirely his fault - at that level of play, it sometimes comes down to minute differences in skill and pure luck, and they were simply outclassed that day by the other team. It’s not a punishment. The coaches simply want him to revisit the basics for a while.

Atsumu doesn’t go easy on him, though. He doesn’t talk to Osamu for a week. It’s like he’s invisible in his own home, almost as if Atsumu’s trying to force him to be the first one to pick a fight about it, because nothing about this is normal. It works for Osamu, though, much to the contrary; this way, he can power down and concentrate on getting back into the game without Atsumu bothering him left and right like he always does when Osamu doesn’t live up to his arbitrary standards. And it’s probably bugging him more than it’s bugging Osamu, so that’s a bonus.

“You’ve finally given up, have you,” Atsumu says one afternoon. He was probably unable to withstand the uncomfortable tension he’d created all by himself.

“On what?”

“On life?”

“How so,” asks Osamu slowly.

“You finally realised you ain’t as good a player as I am, and you’ve gotten so despondent that you don’t even care if you get to play as a regular anymore,” explains Atsumu.

Osamu hasn’t told Atsumu what he’s been thinking these few weeks. There’s no way Atsumu knows how much effort he’s put into trying to regain his sense for volleyball.

“Shut your mouth,” he warns.

“Shan’t,” says Atsumu. “Why should I? I’m just speakin’ the truth. Now it’s finally settled who’s the better player between the two of us. You can go and decide what else you want to do from now on, loser. Congratulations.”

It’s all the impetus Osamu needs to get up from his desk and try to teach Atsumu a lesson. He’ll sit down to think about why they can never settle arguments peacefully. Right now, the only thing he cares about is beating Atsumu to a pulp. He’s never really succeeded before, but he damn near came close a couple of times. He could do it again. What is it that compels him? That’s it - that look in Atsumu’s eyes when Osamu grabs the front of his T-shirt, stretching out the soft polyester, crazed and fearful and challenging. Like, he’s not sure he wants to get on Osamu’s bad side, and he’s not sure provoking Osamu is a good idea, but he’d like to try anyway.

Osamu doesn’t think twice; he swings his other arm and his fist comes into solid contact with the side of Atsumu’s face. That’s got to hurt. He doesn’t give Atsumu time to get back up. He slides a hand into Atsumu’s hair and wrenches, earning him a satisfactory yelp, and barely manages to dodge when Atsumu tries to scratch his eyeballs out. Atsumu’s always fought like a kid. Childish slaps across the face, clawing at people’s eyes, stuff like that. He’s laughably bad at anything that doesn’t involve volleyball. Years on, when they’re adults and Osamu might not be constantly by his side, Atsumu’s foul mouth is going to get him into trouble with somebody who’s itching to beat him up even more than Osamu is, and it is then that his subpar combat skills will really fucking do him in. But Osamu doesn’t care. Whatever Atsumu gets, he will have gotten it coming.

“C’mere,” he says, “get up,” and hauls Atsumu upwards so he can punch him again. Atsumu squirms, but the expression on his face is screaming bloody murder; he scrapes Osamu’s neck with his fingernails as he reaches out, close to the vein, and in the confusion manages to kick Osamu so hard in the shin that he loses his balance. They tumble to the floor, and Osamu narrowly avoids knocking his head against the wooden frame of their bunk bed. It’s happened before, several years ago - yes, in another fight - and he was lucky to not have split his head open then.

Osamu’s gained a couple of kilograms in the last few months, and he knows how to use it. It’s mostly muscle weight, so Atsumu goes down like a sack of potatoes when Osamu wrestles him onto his side and pins a knee in his abdomen. The last time they fought about volleyball, Kita was there to intervene, but now, Atsumu only has himself to count on.

“You’re crushin’ my organs, you idiot,” squawks Atsumu.

“Say you’re sorry,” Osamu tells him.

“Fuck you,” Atsumu snaps. He looks like he’s about to spit at Osamu, but then thinks better of it.

Osamu collects himself. He tries to steady his breathing. His shoulders are shaking, but somehow he feels invigorated. He still has a fist curled up in Atsumu’s now overstretched shirt. In his mind, he imagines socking Atsumu across his reddened cheek until he passes out. Or maybe knocking him out with a forehead slam. He knows not to do it, of course. Their parents would actually kill him.

“Okay,” he says finally, letting go. “I’m just sayin’. Don’t go runnin’ your mouth again like that. You piss me off.”

“Get off me,” says Atsumu.

Osamu leans backwards. His mouth is stinging. He wipes it off with the back of his hand and it comes off bright red - Atsumu managed to split his lip in the frenzy somehow. He licks the wound and tastes blood. His stomach rumbles - he’s really fucking hungry. Atsumu glares at him as he finally stands up, but says nothing. He knows he lost the fight, fair and square.

“You boys fought again!” their mother exclaims at dinner. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. The cut on Osamu’s mouth is clotting over nicely, and Atsumu’s cheekbone is now swollen - it will bruise beautifully over the next few days. “How many times do I have to tell you - you’re way too old to be doin’ this all the time!”

“Oh, give them a break,” says their father. “What’s a little roughhousin’? That’s how you know they’re actually gettin’ along.”

“This is why they’re always fightin’! Because you approve of it.”

“Don’t worry, mom,” says Atsumu, shooting Osamu a pointed glance. “We made up.”

“We did,” Osamu confirms, regardless of the ambiguity of the statement. Their mother’s cooking tastes amazing as usual, but it hurts to eat. The inside of his mouth is throbbing, and so is his jaw. He chews on a big spoonful of nikujaga and accidentally bites down on the inside of his cheek. There it is again, the tang of iron. He reaches for his glass of oolong tea and rinses it down. Fuck, even dinner is ruined. He grimaces at Atsumu, who quickly averts his gaze and concentrates on chowing down his rice. Fuckhead.

After he helps his mom with the dishes, he finds Atsumu at the front door, fiddling with the shoe cabinet.

He pauses. This should be none of his business, but he asks, “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

“Gettin’ a snack.”

“You just finished dinner. And you’re the one who’s always callin’ me a greedy pig.”

“Whatever. You comin’?” Atsumu asks curtly.

Osamu hesitates, then sighs. He’d already expended all that aggression - he’s no longer mad at Atsumu either. “Wait here. I’ll get my sweater.”

It’s only September after all, so the weather is still cool instead of frigid. The nights are definitely chillier than they’ve been just last week, though, and it’s a sure sign that autumn is already descending upon them. Atsumu is already waiting outside the house when Osamu returns with his sweater, the lamppost by the street shining a dim light on his sullen face. He’s just wearing his T-shirt. Whatever, Osamu doesn’t care if he catches a cold being a knucklehead. He slips into his sneakers, then shuts the front door behind him.

They walk in silence to the convenience store nearby. They spend ten minutes or so shopping separately, and it’s stupidly awkward when they dump their spoils at the cashier counter at the same time. If the cashier’s noticed anything strange, he doesn’t say it; he scans the items one by one, places them into the same plastic bag, and Osamu glares down Atsumu until Atsumu grumbles and pulls out his wallet.

There are a row of benches outside the store. It’s great weather for hanging out and doing nothing. Atsumu unwraps a double soda popsicle, then mulls over it and hands it over to Osamu.

“You break it,” he says. “I don’t wanna get yelled at again if it doesn’t break evenly.”

If he’s trying to make Osamu feel guilty, he’s succeeded. Osamu holds both ends of the wooden sticks that are poking out of the confectionary, and pulls. Thankfully, the popsicle snaps cleanly into two. He hands one side to Atsumu, then sticks the other one in his own mouth, icing over the small, tender square of flesh that he’d bitten down on at dinner.

“You know, I ain’t gotten injured playin’ volleyball ever since we were in sixth grade?” asks Atsumu, the words coming out garbled because he’s trying to talk while he’s eating. “That time I jammed my finger so hard I thought I broke it. Remember?”

“Don’t fuckin’ jinx yourself. We ain’t gettin’ anywhere in the Spring High if you hurt yourself doin’ something stupid.”

“That’s right, even if you were to set in my place, ‘s no way you’ll ever do as good a job as me,” Atsumu jabbers. Osamu feels a wave of irritation wash over him, but doesn’t pursue it. He’s still worn out from their fight earlier. “You’re one to talk, though. You almost gave me a fuckin’ black eye. Honestly, aren’t you the one who’s always gettin’ me all beat up? I almost never get hurt otherwise.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “How’s your face?”

“I look worse than I feel. That’s the real crime,” Atsumu gripes. “How’s your hand?”

“Feels fine enough to sock you again,” Osamu replies, flexing his fingers. Atsumu scoffs. “Might miss a few serves. Hit a few duds. It’ll be your fault if I don’t make the team again by next week.”

“I hope you break all your fingers the next time you decide to hit me,” Atsumu says, sucking angrily on his popsicle. A passerby who overhears his comment turns to look at him in alarm. “Show me some respect, please. I’m your older brother.”

“By a whoppin’ seven minutes.”

“Still.”

Osamu crunches on what remains of his popsicle and thinks about how, sometime in the near future, all this is going to repeat itself. Someday he might really split his head open trying to punch the lights out of Atsumu. It’ll be worth it, though. Maybe it’ll make Atsumu cry, either from actually egregiously injuring somebody without ever having the guts to go through with it, or from the inevitable dressing-down he’ll get from their parents. And then they’ll share a snack or play a video game or play volleyball and everything will be fine again, ad infinitum.

“I hate you so much,” he says.

“Same here,” Atsumu answers without skipping a beat. He holds a hand out, palm up, and Osamu completes the low five. “Hurry up and get back in there. Suna’s gettin’ pissed that I’ve been tryin’ to make him do quicks with me.”

*

When they were children, their friends were never very good at telling them apart, especially when they were very young and deliberately messed with other kids in class by saying the same things and acting the same way. Swapping nametags was a favourite, until their parents, upon the suggestion of a hapless homeroom teacher, agreed to have their names printed on the back of their uniforms, which was massively embarrassing. Most of the adults were often able to notice Osamu’s relative impassivity, and how Atsumu was restless in every other way - fidgety, disruptive, constantly distracting the other kids by mumbling under his breath. The only time Osamu ever got excited was at mealtimes, where his bright-eyed enthusiasm for the dishes would get him an inappropriately large serving from the lunch lady.

“Osamu,” he remembers his mother telling him, somewhere between the nebulous range of five to six years old - kneeling down to speak to him, holding both his hands in hers, “you’ll take care of Atsumu, won’t you? Keep him out of trouble? Mom knows you’re a good boy.”

“Mmn,” he recalls replying. What else was he supposed to say? He was old enough to realise that he was different from Atsumu, but not old enough to process the implications of it.

This gulf has only grown wider as they’ve grown older. Even now he remains indifferent to comments that he’s not as charismatic or eye-catching a player as Atsumu is. As a set they’re referred to as the Miya twins, but when people talk about gamemakers, they’re always singling Atsumu out. That’s okay; they still have a great partnership, it doesn’t make Osamu any less of a good player and it doesn’t make him like volleyball less, everyone else on the team is just about as talented, and besides, Atsumu’s stupid. Also, he stands out on court because he’s such a huge showboat. Osamu will let him have that.

See, there’s just something so satisfying about denying Atsumu his supposed greatness. That’s because he’s really not that great. In this respect, there’s a memory that Osamu recalls perfectly, even though the incident itself took place almost a decade ago. There, they were both sitting on the floor of their living room, watching television; they must have been around seven or eight, because Osamu distinctly remembers now feeling more like a caretaker than a brother, after their mother had etched that credo into his pliable, developing brain. They were watching some kids’ programming, a cartoon or one of those educational TV shows, and Atsumu, eyes brimming with innocent stupidity, had said something inane like, “Whoa, wouldn’t it be awesome to fly like that? You think we could? You think dad and mom could help us out and make us each a pair of wings?”

It’s said that people hate others who are too similar to them. On that particular day, however, Osamu’s response wasn’t driven by a knee-jerk irritability of his brother. Instead, he remembers taking a good, hard look at Atsumu’s face - same eyes, same nose, same mouth, wildly different attitude and expression to the point of unrecognisability - and feeling the irrepressible urge to bring Atsumu back down to earth by replying, as straightforwardly as he could, “Don’t be dumb. It’s just a cartoon. Humans just can’t fly no matter what.”

Atsumu was indignant. “They can too! How else would aeroplanes exist? You just have to take the wings off and stick them on your back!”

Or he could have said any number of things. Osamu doesn’t really recall the exact phrasing. What he remembers with utmost clarity is the look of wonderment draining out of Atsumu’s eyes as he looked back at Osamu, that horrified expression coming into sharp focus, and everything else fading away into fuzziness.

“Why don’t you try,” he said to Atsumu, who still seemed taken aback by the rejection, “and tell me if it works?”

That’s not to say that Atsumu doesn’t have his moments. Sometimes he’s tolerable when he’s so immersed in a game, he forgets to toot his own horn. Of course, when that’s happening, Osamu’s probably equally engaged and doesn’t have the headspace to think about knocking Atsumu off his pedestal. That comes afterwards, usually when they win a match and Atsumu brags so hard he might get an ulcer from it, and when he’s not waiting for Atsumu’s toss to come his way, turning into the perfect opportunity for a spike.

Osamu knows that his favourite thing is when it’s time to eat. His second favourite thing is the eight seconds that he takes to serve in a game, quietly digesting the atmosphere of the crowd with all eyes on him and the players on the opposite court desperate to fill up any gaps on the floor. His third favourite thing, he thinks, might be to keep Atsumu honest.

*

Last year, for their sixteenth birthday, Osamu and Atsumu celebrated by hanging out with the team for the first time, instead of having a party thrown by their parents. Unexpectedly, their father was the one to shed tears of joy, saying that his kids had grown up and become part of society, but Osamu quietly suspected that it was because they had finally found a place where Atsumu’s overwhelming talent and abrasive personality was truly considered an asset instead of something to put up with. Or it could have been the fact that Atsumu was behaving himself because pretty much no one missed his tosses anymore. Inarizaki was the sort of team where ability thrived, and was encouraged.

They were the only freshmen on the regular team, and some of the second-years saw fit to buy them a meal. It was free food, so neither of them could say no. Osamu still can’t decide if it was a joke - the upperclassmen had commissioned a sushi place near their school to make them a sushi cake, with layers of cheap sashimi sandwiched between beds of rice and garnished with slices of tamagoyaki and leek. It didn’t matter, anyway; they stuck candles in it and made their wishes, then cut it up like a normal birthday cake, and everybody had some.

“So what’d you wish for,” asked Akagi.

“To go to the Olympics one day,” Atsumu blurted out. Osamu could practically feel the physical impact of everybody’s eyebrows shooting up around the table, one after another. It’s not unlikely - Inarizaki has produced alumni who went on to play at the international level - but it’s one thing to think it and aim for it, and another to say it so unabashedly, without reservation. “I make the same wish every year.”

“That’s just like you,” Aran nodded. “What about you, Osamu?”

“I wished for the good health and safety of my family members,” he said pointedly, looking at Atsumu.

“You absolute liar,” said Atsumu. “You probably wished for a year’s supply of free burgers from MOS Burger.”

“Nobody said I couldn’t make more than one wish.”

Back at home, their parents were waiting for them with another cake anyway - despite knowing that they wouldn’t need to throw a party - a real cake this time, with buttercream frosting and a thick chocolate ganache. They blew out the candles again and made (Osamu assumes) the same wishes, and Osamu momentarily forgot about everything else as he just sat down and ate. He might have eaten half that cake that night alone; there was no way to tell. It all went in his stomach anyway.

“Photo time,” their mother sang, whipping out the camera she saved for important occasions, a real professional camera, not a smartphone camera. She had photographs of all their birthday celebrations right from their very first birthday. Atsumu preened while the camera went off, and Osamu continued eating. Then she moved the photo albums out of the study and went through her collection of past photographs.

“This one is still my favourite,” said their father, pointing to a photo taken circa 1999. In it, a tinier Osamu is depicted eating cake off a bawling Atsumu’s face. There is a sizeable amount of ruined cake on the table, smashed to bits.

“A glutton right from the very beginnin’,” Atsumu commented darkly.

Neither of them could be bothered to wash up after that. Normally Osamu would have called Atsumu out for being gross, but he was stuffed with about three times more carbs and sugar than Atsumu was, so he was equally groggy from all the blood rushing to his stomach, eagerly ushering along the process of digestive work. He felt his way around the bedroom towards their bunk bed, not bothering with the lights either, and was about to climb in when he felt Atsumu wrap his tacky arms around his midriff.

“Happy birthday, ‘Samu,” he slurred, resting his head on Osamu’s shoulder. “Another year older and none the wiser.”

“You too,” replied Osamu, reaching over to pat Atsumu on the head. Then he swatted harder, so Atsumu would let go, and he could go to bed.

“Aww, are we feelin’ shy,” said Atsumu then.

*

“So what did you do during the weekend,” asks Atsumu, leaning over the back of his seat to talk to Suna, who’s sitting in the row behind with Osamu. Osamu wishes he would just buzz off. He’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed and barely survived through an entire day of school, and the roads are so bumpy that he can’t even get a short nap in, and now Atsumu is trying to talk their ears off.

“I don’t know, what’s there to do in this town?” Suna asks in reply, scrolling endlessly through his Twitter feed.

“I went to the coffee museum with my family,” pipes up Ginjima from beside Atsumu. “Did you know that there are more than eighty coffee tasting notes? Dependin’ on how you process the beans, you can literally get coffee that tastes like soil.”

“That is the least appealin’ thing I’ve ever heard of.”

“Did you get to eat anything good there?” Osamu asks.

“No,” says Ginjima. “They only had coffee.”

“Why are you always thinkin’ about eatin’,” asks Atsumu. “You had such a heavy lunch just now you can’t even keep your eyes open. Look at you. Please don’t give me another botched game and like, miss three attacks in a row. It’s embarrassin’ for everyone involved.”

“Your mouth is what’s embarrassin’. Quit talkin’ out of your ass.”

“Great, it’s startin’ up again,” says Suna, eyes still not leaving his phone screen.

“Am I talkin’ out of my ass? You know how you’ve been playin’ these few months. And you know who has to clean up after your incompetent ass? Me.”

“I’m doin’ fine. Take it up with Coach if you have any issues. Also, it’s disrespectful to the rest of the team to act like you’re the only one holdin’ it up.”

“Did you guys know? ‘Samu jerks off in the bathroom before he takes a huge shit and a shower,” says Atsumu, staring Osamu down. “It’s why he spends such a long time in there every night, like a whole fuckin’ hour and a half. I have to go to the bathroom downstairs if I need to use it.”

“You jerk off almost every night in the top bunk, you horndog. You think I don’t know but I hear everything, I’m just too grossed out to take it up with you. Sometimes I have to stuff my ears with earbuds just so I can sleep.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Suna. Ginjima stifles a snicker.

“I hate goin’ into the bathroom after ‘Samu. He takes the biggest fuckin’ shits because he eats so much,” Atsumu continues, voice crescendoing, determined to have the last word even though his ears are turning as red as their team jacket. “I was wonderin’ why he brought our mom’s home cooking magazine in with him last week, I’ll bet he was jerkin’ it to pictures of –”

“Atsumu,” comes Kita’s voice from the front of the bus, calm but loud and steady. Everybody flinches, and Atsumu turns around and sits down immediately, his head disappearing below the seat’s cushion at a speed faster than one of his own serves.

“Settle down, everyone,” says Kurosu, but by then the entire bus has gone pindrop silent with fear.

“You got me lectured by Kita-san,” Atsumu hisses as soon as they alight.

“You deserved it, and he didn’t even lecture you, just called your name,” argues Osamu. “You -”

Aran turns backwards and gives them both a look of caution. Not because he’s about to give them a piece of his mind, but really because Kita is still within earshot. Osamu shuts up.

“Right, so Murano Tech are known for their excellent receives,” says Kurosu in the pre-game address. “We’re a team that’s heavy on offence, so this is a good opportunity to detect any blind spots in our methods of attack. Don’t go all out right from the beginnin’. Observe how they adapt to changes in our strategies.”

“We just came off the summer Interhigh as runners-up, so they’ll be on guard,” adds Oomi. “Use this to our advantage.”

“Osamu,” Kurosu says, after they disperse, “you’re startin’ today.”

Atsumu is up to serve first, as usual. It’s perfectly serviceable - not his best, but it’s more than enough to send Murano’s libero scrambling to put it up in the air. Osamu backs up, watching the ball as it soars over the net, but Atsumu sets it to Aran instead, who slams it towards the back court, as he usually does. That’s fine, a point scored is a point scored. Osamu was sluggish today morning, but now, he really wants to play.

The next point is a service ace. Then, the next one goes straight to their libero again, but this time Murano tries for an attack. Their setter tosses it to the left - it’s a line shot, and no one is in position to block. “My bad,” mutters Oomimi, holding up a hand in Atsumu’s direction. Service goes to the other team. Osamu glances at Atsumu, but he’s not looking elsewhere; Akagi digs the ball perfectly, and it sails over to Atsumu, who’s close to the net. He might dump the ball, but it’s not likely - he just got his serves stolen from him. He’d want to do something flashy. Osamu’s hungry, too; he does a run-up to the net where there aren’t any blockers, jumps, and Atsumu’s toss comes to him, lightning quick. A wing spiker comes surging forward, but it’s too little, too late. Osamu tilts his palm, he spikes, cross shot, it’s a point.

“Don’t mind it,” yells Murano’s coach from the sidelines.

“Insane,” mumbles a middle blocker. Their setter turns to Atsumu and laughs weakly, “So you guys really are psychic? I’d heard the rumour, but you weren’t even lookin’!”

Osamu walks back to position, but Atsumu objects, “That was all me! I tossed it and he just happened to be there.” Osamu rolls his eyes. He knows he didn’t just get lucky.

Tactically speaking, where do twins fall on the volleyball attack spectrum, anyway? There’s a hundred percent chance that someone’s bound to make some sort of comment about how their special telepathy powers are the driving force behind their spectacular ability to coordinate on the court any time there’s a match, whether it’s from someone on their own team or a spectator or commentator, as if they’re good volleyball players just by virtue of being twins.

It’s all nonsense, of course. Osamu can’t read Atsumu’s mind; otherwise he’d know the rationale behind why his brother was such a gigantic asshole. The mysticism behind their twinship is probably a large part of the appeal, but after hearing such comments for the better part of their lives, Osamu can’t be bothered to correct people who think so. Besides, Atsumu eats that shit up because he thinks he’s truly special, so from time to time Osamu indulges him when he deigns to perform a volleyball party trick for the crowd and links up seamlessly like a trained seal. Halfway across the country, or even across the world, there are any number of pairs of twins where one excels in something while the other doesn’t. It’s a matter of interest, and it so happens that the both of them were interested in volleyball from a young age. That’s all. Compared to the average person, they’ve had more than twice the amount of time between the two of them to make effort look effortless. That’s why people are so enthralled.

_Come here,_ he thinks anyway. _Bring it here._ It’s been weeks since he’s felt this motivated. Murano’s blockers don’t stand a chance when he feints, and then delivers a cut shot across their territory. He high-fives Atsumu, who has the craziest fucking glint in his eye.

They win two out of the three matches they play that afternoon. Kurosu is just delighted that Osamu is performing well again, he forgets to lecture the team for being too experimental with their plays when he specifically instructed them to train against the other team’s receives. It’s really Atsumu’s fault. He did a bunch of really crazy stuff today. He even made Osamu set for him a couple of times even though they haven’t done it in a while. The bus drops them off back at school, and they get bubble tea on the way home to celebrate.

“As expected, everything tastes better after a good workout. And after we win a game,” Atsumu grins.

“You’re right,” Osamu agrees. He doesn’t remember brown sugar boba tasting this good. Today, it tastes like a gastronomic masterwork.

They’re both in a stupidly good mood for the rest of the day. They don’t even remember arguing earlier that afternoon all the way until it’s time to sleep. Atsumu climbs up the ladder to his bunk, but pauses halfway and looks down at Osamu, who’s already doing his nightly bedtime internet surf lying on his mattress, through the slats.

“Can you really hear everything?” he asks, dead serious.

Osamu looks back at Atsumu and frowns. His earphones are lying next to his pillow. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re lyin’,” says Atsumu, but he sounds unsure.

“I don’t know what you think I could possibly gain by doin’ that.”

“The ability to humiliate me, maybe,” replies Atsumu, unexpectedly astute, and continues his ascent into his bunk.

*

They say that twins share a soul. They say, too, that people hate others who are too similar to them. You don’t think you’re entirely similar to your brother, though. You couldn’t be more different.

Chart a map. You’ve never walked it alone. The proof is all around you - two beds, two desks, two sets of uniforms. Two volleyball kits in two colours each, two pairs of indoor shoes, two pairs of volleyball shoes, black with blue accents, in the same size. Two sets of toothbrushes, two sets of cutlery, two sets of schoolbooks, two beverage mugs. Two laptops, two Playstation controllers. Everything that has ever been a necessity to you has its own twin, too. Wear those shoes and run a mile. You will have a companion. Share a meal. Eat his leftovers, order seconds. Swap volumes of comics when you’re done reading. Use his phone when yours is charging. Give him your assignment answers - they’re wrong, but he doesn’t care. Look in the mirror. He’s there. His hand is your hand. You don’t know what it means to be alone, but you know acutely the pain of a toothache, frustration lining the enamel of your teeth, soreness in your jaw from constantly enduring. Sometimes your gums itch from sheer joy. It is both a curse and a blessing.

Do you know what he sees when he looks at you? You don’t know exactly, but you can guess. It is because you look the same that he sees himself in your image. When scientists study the environment around them they take two of the same specimens and make a comparison. Humans define themselves, not in and of their own person, but in opposition to other people. The universe has conspired to make you both extensions of each other. When you disagree it is a matter of life and death; when you agree everything in the world is only right. When he tosses to you, you, too, are an extension of his vision, and when you call to him you are raising him to your level. You were originally one and the same person, after all. This idea of sameness is irresistible, even though you differ in so many ways. Perhaps this is the reason why you never want to let him feel like he’s caught up. It’s not about winning - it concerns the matter of your own existence. You don’t want to be a role model. You weren’t born for that purpose.

For the time being, though, when he says go, you go. You’ll hate it, but you’ll go. And you’ll outrun him. It is the only thing you have ever known.

*

Osamu opens the door to the fridge. The extra-large pudding he bought specially for himself as a weekend treat is gone. He whirls around, and right there in the trash can is the empty container, with the lid peeled open three quarters of the way, and strands of caramel still staining the bottom of it.

He fishes the cup out of the trash and stares at it for a good minute. Then he heads upstairs to the bedroom, holding the cup. The sound of flowing water escapes from behind the bathroom door, and nested within it is Atsumu’s muffled voice, humming the refrain to his new favourite pop song. Osamu leaves the cup on Atsumu’s desk, then opens his wallet and takes out a few notes. Then he takes a few more for good measure, and the coins too. Lawson just advertised the comeback of their limited edition tiramisu parfait two days ago. Yesterday, Aran sent him a link to the website of a new taiyaki place that just opened up in their district. Oh, and he’ll get the new issue of that pricey luxury watch magazine their dad likes to read while he’s at it - he’ll be pleasantly surprised. Atsumu won’t be able to say no to that.

He knocks on the bathroom door.

“I’m goin’ out,” he says.

“Okay,” Atsumu calls back. “See you later.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm inclined to defend this circular piece of writing by saying this is the phase of osamu's life in which he has accepted the continuous, unending status quo of constantly being in strife with atsumu, without realising that there are things he can do to remedy it, i.e. leave volleyball
> 
> the coffee museum ginjima visits is the [ucc coffee museum](https://www.ucc.co.jp/museum/english/), japan's only coffee museum
> 
> bubble tea shout out to my pal bronigiri


End file.
